Becoming a black mage was one of them. Living out his life in a palace surrounded by servants and having nothing better to do with his time than eat, drink, and dance his endless evenings away had been another. Facing a diminutive, Bruadairian great-granny who had just told him to stop being such a woman had honestly never entered his mind. He supposed it had just been that sort of day so far. The journey to the dreamspinners’ palace, Ciaradh, had been long and not precisely restful. He’d spent an anxious half hour mentally walking with Aisling up a path the floor seemed to demarcate for her without reservation, only to watch her put her hand on a spinning wheel and hope the bloody thing wouldn’t kill her. He’d hobnobbed with spinners from all over the world, many surprisingly not spinning for those rulers sitting on the Council of Kings, and eaten perhaps more than he should have in preparation for any other activity besides a robust nap.
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